


Lives in Nutshells

by Dwimordene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, General, Multi-Age, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - I reread often, Plot - Joy, Plot - Tear-jerker, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2007-04-02
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwimordene/pseuds/Dwimordene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Upon This Hither Shore

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

fliewatuet asked for a drabble about pre-Ring war Aragorn.  
  


* * *

  
  
They say water draws Elves. Mayhap also the elven-reared, for there he sits—the foundling washed up on mortal shores.  
  
The stone skips twice, then sinks. Halbarad tsks. "Throw a round?" he asks when the other turns. Aragorn considers, then nods.  
  
Upon the riverbank they stand, casting stones in silence awhile. "You're often here," Halbarad says. Aragorn shrugs.  
  
"I was born between these rivers—" his last stone sinks "—but they speak nothing to me."  
  
The final stone skips thrice. "Silly game," Halbarad complains. A beat, then: "Again, tomorrow?"  
  
Reflections waver in the water.  
  
"Aye, tomorrow," Aragorn agrees. And then smiles.


	2. Charity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.

Something to feed Alawa's pyre obsession, while also satisfying her Aragorn-Halbarad obsessions.  
  


* * *

  
  
They went to no tomb. Denethor, despising fate, had rejoiced. Halbarad would've cared little—what Ranger cares for his own flesh so? But men not yet corpses have their needs—the Grey Company laments as flames roar.  
  
Mayhap fire's fitting, Aragorn, watching, thinks. Stewards serve all indifferently; therefore let the wind be as generous dispersing their ashes. The thought's not uncomforting, and comfort's needed: smoke rises still from Rath Dînen. But there's yet no king in Gondor—hard judgments can wait. Thus Aragorn will be as indifferent-generous as the funerary dust: unto death they served; let none look further today.


	3. War Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.

'Tis a stormy day, the sort to make a Ranger curse, as Halbarad does for Ranger-lads who'll come not home this time. But someone had to stop those trolls...  
  
Later, nursing grief and bruises, Halbarad, as usual, recalls the list: _ungwe-ando_ /Cpt, _umbar-anga_ /Rhr... 'Frivolity', some would say, missing the point: men need companionship to pierce the bonds of war, reminder that, after all, war's not their first brotherhood.  
  
Thus when Menethril asks, "Anything else for Lord Aragorn?", he replies:  
  
"Give him this..."  
  


***

And elsewhere three weeks later, after Menethril's grim report, Aragorn can't but laugh despite troubles to read:

_Tinco-ungwe/Rk—check!_

* * *

  
  
I tried to translate the usual chessboard notation into Middle-earth. So instead of a row of numbers, the letters are simply repeated. Bishops are captains (cpt), knights are "Rohirrim" (rhr), rooks are still rooks. Tengwar names handily and beautifully available at [Amanye Tenceli.](http://at.mansbjorkman.net/)  
  
Written for fliewatuet's birthday.


	4. Who Would Be King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.

_No trace of Ringwraiths._ The message went by courier upon their return, for Aragorn had much to do ere returning to Imladris. For there's war, and then there's apocalypse.  
  
"Again," Halbarad remarked with black humor the day of Aragorn's departure. And since they were alone, Aragorn chuckled, though mirth quickly faded.  
  
"Can you manage in my absence?" he asked.  
  
"We always have," Halbarad assured him. But when Aragorn had mounted his steed, Halbarad touched his knee and asked: "Can you manage in _our_ absence?"  
  
"I'm your Chieftain," Aragorn said simply, and ere Halbarad could comment, finished: "How could I possibly?"  
  


* * *

  
  
A woman after my own heart, Gwynnyd has a minor Aragorn obsession and asked for a drabble about him at any point in his life.


	5. Well-named

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.

"New Rangers, eh?" the innkeep grunted. They shrugged, and the man sighed, handing one of them a key, saying: "All right, my fine young Strider, just don't bother my girls."  
  
Once out of earshot, Aragorn muttered, "Why must _I_ be 'Strider'?"  
  
"Because you are?" Halbarad quipped, then _oofed!_ as Aragorn elbowed him.  
  
"Traitor," Aragorn growled, as a pair of chambermaids appeared. The Rangers stood aside, Halbarad bowing as they passed. The lasses smiled, hurrying away, but their whispers carried and Halbarad paled to hear:  
  
"Well one's mannerly! Leggy lad, though—a very heron!"  
  
Aragorn said naught; his grin told all.  
  


* * *

  
  
And because it just can't end that way, [later that night...](http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=6863&spordinal=6)


	6. Names That Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.

It was crowded in _The Pony_ 's common room, and with the bustle and chatter of so many, three lonely figures in the corner went almost unnoticed as they waited for their supper. Which little troubled them, for they'd their own business.  
  
"—only did we spend half the day choking on dust behind a Dwarven caravan—" Aragorn was saying, when Halbarad chimed in, grinning.  
  
"—but when Aragorn left to see to their ponies, some cook threw a pail of dishwater out the window. Right in the face," he finished, eyes atwinkle.  
  
Their tablemate, an older Ranger, Telebrin, grunted after a glance at Aragorn. "No harm done, it seems," he remarked.  
  
"Oh no," Halbarad said, grin broadening. "Quite an improvement act—"  
  
"So Heron—" Aragorn began, and his friend groaned.  
  
"Will you _cease?_ They'll hear—"  
  
"'Heron'?" Telebrin asked, skeptically, gaze shifting to Halbarad.  
  
"Chamberlass-clept," Aragorn declared solemnly.  
  
"Least she's pretty, _Strider_ ," Halbarad grumbled, and got a glare. Their companion shook his head.  
  
"Well, I think you've naught to complain of," he said, matter-of-factly.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"No." He began ticking points off. "You're alive. You're paid off. It was dishwater, not a chamber pot—" the younger men grimaced at this "—and as for your new names—"  
  
He was interrupted in his recitation by one of the serving lasses, calling to them above the din from three tables over: "Sorry, lads, it'll be a minute more. And what was it again that you'd wanted, Stilts?"  
  
Aragorn and Halbarad exchanged a look, and Halbarad, after a moment, mouthed, 'Stilts?' Telebrin gave a pained sigh, glared at his young companions, who were manfully attempting to seem somber, and then turned an incongruously mild gaze upon the girl.  
  
"It matters naught, my dear. Just make it strong, whatever it is."


	7. Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.

Upon the table the _palantír_ gleamed darkly in the lamplight, sleeping, awaiting a mind's touch.  
  
"To challenge Sauron, a king's needed," Aragorn had said. Now Halbarad stood watching him lay out a king's accoutrements: sword, star, and standard; the Elessar upon his breast, Barahir's ring upon his finger. _Cloaked in truth_ , he thought, then grunted.  
  
"You'll need a steward," he said quietly. "Someone to bear your banner... to bear you company before his Eye."  
  
Aragorn sighed. "I'll not command you. I'd've asked Boromir, but—"  
  
" _But_ ," Halbarad finished, clapping his friend's shoulder, "I am here, Aragorn."  
  
 _For a little while._  
  


* * *

  
  
"'Where is Aragorn?' [Merry] asked.  
  
'In a high chamber of the Burg,' said Legolas.... 'He went thither some hours ago, saying that he must take thought, and only his kinsman, Halbarad, went with him...'"—"The Passing of the Grey Company", 52  
  
"Presently Éomer came out from the gate, and with him was Aragorn, and Halbarad bearing the great staff close-furled in black..."—"The Passing of the Grey Company", 55.  
  
"[Sauron] beheld me. Yes, Master Gimli, he saw me, but in other guise than you see me here."—Aragorn, "The Passing of the Grey Company", 57  
  
Written for Alawa's birthday.


	8. Trade in Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.

"There's no journey without a hitch," the older Rangers say. "There's always something—just hope it doesn't kill you or anyone else."  
  
Aragorn and Halbarad have faced bandits, orcs, payment reneged, floods, and one time even fire when a summer thunderstorm set the plains between Mirkwood and the High Pass alight. That had nearly been the end of them; it had certainly been the end of the goods they had been guarding.  
  
This time, it's a broken cart—Southern measure doesn't fit the ruts in the Road near Bree, and the axel had given way, taking much of the undercarriage with it. Halbarad had run ahead to town to bring help, while Aragorn had stood guard with the cursing merchant.  
  
Eventually, help had come: a cart to match the ruts and carry the goods, and draft horses to drag the wagon back to town, whence it was sent to the smith and carpenter. Aragorn and Halbarad, off duty now, go with it nonetheless to watch as smith and carpenter take off dented wheels, break out the old axel and its damaged fittings, make a new one, replace the chassis, fit the cart with iron-capped wheels broader in the rim than the ruts.  
  
"Are you any good at carpentry?" Halbarad asks.  
  
"I can make a bow. Or a spear," Aragorn replies.  
  
Halbarad grunts. "Too bad," he says. "Sometimes, I wish…"  
  
He doesn't finish, but he doesn't need to. Young as they are, they've been on the Road long enough now to know their proper craft—to know that it's no 'craft' at all, as the smith or the carpenter or weaver or even merchant measures the meaning of that word.  
  
Thus as the smith and carpenter shake hands, Aragorn murmurs wistfully, "Me, too." He ducks his head and sighs. "Me, too!"  
  


* * *

  
  
Vilwarin asked for anything with Aragorn and Rangers for her birthday.


	9. New Day Dawning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a collection of the drabbles and near-drabbles about Aragorn and Halbarad (not just one or the other, but both) that I've written.

Gandalf's Apprentice wanted Aragorn displaying some emotion. A proper one-shot this time, inspired by rabid nuzgul. My one and only totally unambiguously requited A/H slash.  
  


* * *

  
  
The way matters turned out, Halbarad might have known about it years ago.  
  
It was not that there had ever been a question of choosing between him and Arwen. They both knew there was no future in it, in them, that his heart had always already chosen, which wasn't to say forty odd years on and off, as the turns of fate and the Road allowed, meant nothing. Not at all. It was just... well, Aragorn was less settled at heart, could find a home anywhere—particularly in Gondor, the only place to find a crown these days if one were Isildur's Heir, a point to bear ever in mind for we must always remember _destiny_ —while Halbarad was in love with Eriador, and there was the small matter that no amount of trying was ever going to make them fathers. Not with each other, at least. ("I think we needn't qualify that, Hal." "Quiet, you, I'm trying to make this easier, since you persist in making it difficult." "Oh, but I _like_ it hard..." "Oh for Valar's—!")  
  
For there was Arwen, of course. Still. Always. And perhaps, if fate were kind, as Aragorn was wont to say, forever, so far as Mankind could speak of such things. For even in the lesser eternities of mortals, it would always be Arwen in the end, she was sunk so deep in him he didn't know himself without her.  
  
In the mean time, they had each other and the Road—on the move, under cover and covers, and if fate were kind, then there was a roof and a bottle of wine at the end of the journey. And Halbarad loved to complain about the awful tales of Woe and Romance, and jest that he was going to right the balance of maidens dying for their lovers. ("What, right _now_? Hal!" "What? I'll have you know I'm a perfectly good poet sober." "Every orc in Utumno is cringing! Sober or drunk, the only help for your verses is silence." "Pity for you, for I'm determ—mmph! Mmmm..." Silence.)  
  
Pelennor had taken the laughter from that old jest. Or rather, it had simply buried what was left of it after the doom-saying at the Door. Halbarad would probably have said that it was for the best, that it would be a clean break, cleaner than they could manage together, and that that was needed. That in the end, there was something to be said (for a Ranger) for going down to a glorious death that got sung of, even. (And curse the fickle allegiance of poetic taste, the one verse in that entire lament to fall on deaf ears and be forgotten within a month _would_ be the one listing Eriador's dead! Of course!)  
  
But Aragorn will never know what Halbarad might have said; they did not speak of it all the long way from Dimholt to Pelennor. There were other things, of course, to do and think of and they were captains. ( _ **I'm** a captain; **you're** the king, crown or no crown. Get it right—I didn't die for you to mix these things up, you know._ It should worry him that Arwen doesn't even look askance at him when he tells her Halbarad complains to him still.)  
  
And it's true enough it's likely easier this way. He has a wife he loves beyond reason or unreason, and soon enough there will be children, and there is so much to mend—lands and men and the scars they all bear within them. He would like one day to stop mending, to see things thrive, grow up beyond him, grow into the hands of his sons and daughters—of his and Arwen's sons and daughters. But for now, the king's hands must be a healer's hands first, and the first lesson every healer learns is that it does no good to let the patient pick at a wound.  
  
So it is easier this way—lanced and done with, in one fell swoop of an Easterling blade. No awkward looks or steps, no _mis_ steps to be made—no temptation. He'll never see the anguish in her eyes or his when he turns to one or the other, unable to avoid betrayal for even if he keeps his hands where they belong, looks need no hands to touch depths a wife alone should feel. Halbarad is right—would be right—'tis better thus.  
  
And yet, sometimes, when he wakes suddenly to another's breath at his side in the sweltering night, he remembers other nights alone in a lover's darkness—memory so sharp and vivid his heart speeds as he's struck with sudden doubt: is this new life that's come to fill the emptiness shaped like Halbarad a dream? If he but moves a little, he will know. It needs but one touch, he knows them both so well...  
  
 _But truth looks better in the morning, love. Let it lie. Let it lie, and lie you here with me, just a little longer._  
  
I always have, Hal.  
  
And he always will: through the long watches, he holds himself perfectly still.


End file.
